


zaagi'idiwin

by gabriphales



Series: gomens drabble hell [117]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Book Omens, Fluff without Plot, Hair Brushing, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, People of Color
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:02:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27711757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabriphales/pseuds/gabriphales
Summary: mutual hair-brushing with a little bit of shy crowley to boot
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: gomens drabble hell [117]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1664713
Comments: 3
Kudos: 25





	zaagi'idiwin

**Author's Note:**

> _zaagi'idiwin; mutual love_
> 
> heyo i wrote this basically bc im part native and my partners black, and i wanted to write some representation for us. purely self indulgent, title is in ojibwe !!

it's soothing, brushing aziraphale’s hair out. the soft, silky expanse of dark black, long and draping over his back, down past his shoulder blades. aziraphale giggles when he hits the occasional knot, ( _’you should really let me do this every night, angel, since you won't tend to yourself,’_ ) his thin fingers gently untangling the taut, tightly bound strands. aziraphale yawns, leaning back into him, looking ruefully tired for all his lack of effort, being tended to. 

“getting sleepy there, dove?” crowley asks, stroking at aziraphale’s shoulders, smoothing the wrinkles of his sweater out. he squeezes, prompting a little, measley whine from aziraphale. “gonna answer me?”

“i’m quite afraid i’ve nothing to say, nowhere for my train of thought to go.” aziraphale mutters, eyes fluttering shut as he curves his head back, inviting a kiss from crowley. 

“could let it pop down at my station, take a little ride from there.” crowley says, his lips lingering in the aftertaste when he brings them eager to aziraphale’s. heaven knows he tastes so sweet, so _tender,_ like a blossoming rosebud flushed mauve in the sun. he puts the brush aside, carding his fingers through aziraphale’s freshly detangled locks. back in the eighteen-seventies, during the rise of boarding schools forced upon native american children, aziraphale had grown his hair out in solidarity with those who’d had their hair chopped against their will. though, considering he was across the seas, he could do little but wait and watch, as any angel would. but it helped him rest easier at night. over time, he’d simply gotten used to the look of it, the gentle drape and glide. crowley thinks it a splendid spread of softness to end up raveled in throughout the process of late night cuddling. he’s woken up more than once to an episode of aziraphale’s whining, followed by high, strained complaints, “you’re laying on my hair!” this, of course, is always followed by prompt apologies, and rolling to his other side.

“i ought to brush out your hair one of these days.” aziraphale muses, eyes still closed, his lids soft and glossy, utterly kissable. crowley resists the urge.

“i just miracle it in place,” he says, fluffing his curls. “saves a whole lot of trouble like that.”

“oh, i know,” aziraphale scowls. “rather, wouldn't you like the intimacy of it?”

“intimacy?” crowley scoffs, though something warm does prickle in his chest at the thought. hot and burgeoning.

“ _intimacy,_ ” aziraphale completes. “here, i could even - “ 

and he miracles a small tube of hair cream, followed by a tortoiseshell, orange-brown comb. “please,” he whispers, so faint it's damn near a hex on crowley’s thinning resistance. “will you let me?”

crowley hesitates, before sighing, and turning his back to aziraphale, head tilted in prime position. “bastard,” he groans, though the bite to it is limp and floundering, little more than a pinch, really. aziraphale smiles, and crowley can feel him smiling, that kind, warming glow of it, burning like an oil lamp, heating up the whole room. he doesn't even have to twist his head to see, he just knows - he _knows_ aziraphale is happy. glory be to an angel unscorned, for his love is palpable, lighting up senses that had long since been scorched numb by crowley’s fall. he can't sense love the same way aziraphale does, not for anyone else but his angel. and it’s sweet, sweet - and _irritating,_ an inconvenience at times.

crowley grumbles, “it’s like having hot flashes,” as aziraphale parses the ends of his hair, separating his curls. his fingers move smoothly through it, spreading the cream, and crowley feels rather like he's being buttered up, like kneaded dough. 

“marvelous,” aziraphale comments on the state of his hair as an art critic makes notes on fine, classical pieces. it has crowley blushing, the flush hot in his cheeks, his ears, to the very tip of his nose. 

“you flatter me, angel.” crowley mumbles, unable to keep down a pleased, content little noise in his throat at the first touch of aziraphale’s comb. it feels _nice,_ , slightly tugging at his scalp, just enough to have him tingling where the hair pulls, careful to all extents. aziraphale hums a cheery, calming tune, something he remembers from the fifties. though the lyrics are gone from him, the melody remains. it feels so rich, so warm, so deeply aziraphale, and crowley can't help burying himself in it. humming along when the burden of seeming _too cool_ to enjoy his old show tunes dissipates.

“look at me,” aziraphale says, startling crowley from his languor. “let me see your face.” 

crowley turns to him, all half-lidded eyes and a parted, vulnerable mouth. aziraphale drinks him in, the amber glow of his darling eyes, the soft pink center of his lower lip, and he can't resist it, he's beyond restraint. he kisses him, and kisses him, soft, like a balm of its own kind. and he doesn't stop kissing him for quite a while after that, though time constraints for immortals are often wider, making room for days of one single activity. regardless, he kisses him - and doesn't stop until they're both fulfilled.

**Author's Note:**

> me stabbing aziraphale with more projection: here take this and enjoy it


End file.
